


Master and Servant

by vissy



Category: Lord of the Rings (Novel)
Genre: Frodo/Sam - Freeform, M/M, PWP, Pre-Quest, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-06-02
Updated: 2003-06-02
Packaged: 2017-10-02 03:05:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vissy/pseuds/vissy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was always something going wrong at Bag End.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Master and Servant

Sam stood in the study doorway with a laden tray, watching his master. Sunlight poured through the window, but the room felt chill. The only sounds were the scratching of Frodo's pen and the cracking of his cold, restless toes as they fretted against the rug. Bilbo's old chair was a mite big for his nephew, and Sam watched Frodo's heels swing to and fro, working up friction against the balls of his feet. Sam didn't like to see him in discomfort. He'd like to fall to his knees, take those feet in his lap and hold them there, snug and safe. But that wasn't the way things were. He waited patiently.

The dark head finally rose and turned with an inquisitive sniff. "Elevenses, Sam?"

Sam smiled. "Aye, sir. There's a fresh pot of tea here, and some scones hot out of the oven."

"Is that raspberry jam I see?"

"That it is, sir. I had a few jars off Fancy Chubb. I know how much you enjoyed that last batch of hers."

"She never adds too much sugar. I like to taste the raspberries." Frodo's tongue swept across his top lip, slow and wet, and his eyes met Sam's before returning to the desk. Sam felt his heart catch as the pen was laid down. "I wondered where you went off to," he heard dimly. In Bilbo's day the windowsill had always been cluttered high with books and flowers and teacups until there was no telling what was going on outside. Frodo kept the sill clear.

"It's her laundry day, sir. I knew she wouldn't keep me long." Sam knew no explanation was required, except for the sake of curiosity. He tried to keep his face composed, in case Frodo could see him in the window's reflection, but it was hard, so hard. The teaspoon clattered telltale against the saucer.

"Put down the tray."

Sam did as he was bade, shifting books aside before laying the meal down on the old trunk beside the doorway. Then he straightened, stretching his back surreptitiously. "Will that be all, sir?"

"It's cold in here. Put some wood on the fire, please."

In the fireplace were a few sad-looking lumps of coal and a great deal of ash. It couldn't rightly be called a fire, and Sam should know, for he had made it himself earlier that morning. It had cost him a pang to do such a poor job of it, too. Beside the fireplace, where a neat stack of logs usually lay, there was nought but a few woodchips and a film of dust. "I'm sorry, sir, but there's no more wood."

"No more wood," repeated Frodo softly, his tone almost sad.

"No, sir."

Frodo rose, hands braced at the edge of the desk as he pushed the chair back and planted both feet flat on the floor. The desk didn't shift; it was sturdier than it looked. He turned and stared at the cheerless fireplace like he'd never seen it before, then took hold of the chair and pulled it back towards the doorway. The chair legs sighed softly over the rug and squawked across the tiles.

Frodo resumed his seat, crouching forward with his hands on his knees. The ink-stained fingers were still. Sam waited with downcast eyes.

"The desk, Sam."

And smiled inside, where his master wouldn't see. "Yes, sir."

He padded over to the desk. There were papers shoved to either side - Shire maps, botanical illustrations, journal entries - and a single sheet in the centre, three quarters filled with Frodo's distinctive script. It looked like a letter to the master at Brandy Hall, with whom Frodo had been sharing a long-running and increasingly blustery correspondence regarding the cultivation of brassicas. Sam wasn't certain how much Frodo actually knew about turnips and cabbages outside of booklearning, but he was tickled to spot his name at least four times. _'My Sam says-'_

"Lower your trousers."

Sam unfastened his belt buckle with trembling fingers and freed the buttons on his flies. He'd put on a bit of condition over the long winter and the trousers didn't want to drop without help, so he hooked his thumbs under his smalls and shoved the whole lot down over his arse. The cool air brought a wash of gooseflesh across his bare skin, making him shudder just a little. _'My Sam says-'_

"Bend over."

Sam reached until his fingertips touched the top lip of the desk. The movement brought his shirttail creeping up, baring more skin. He lowered his elbows carefully to either side of the letter, shifting backwards on his heels to secure the stance. There was a burn behind his knees and a stretch across his shoulders, like he sometimes got chopping firewood. His clothes felt tight around his thighs and the words beneath his eyes blurred. _'My Sam says-'_

Nothing, just a gasp as the first smack came up hard against his right cheek, pushing him forward into the desk. There was a pause as he resettled, and then the backhand struck his left cheek, harder but not as loud.

Sam's skin jittered impatiently and his mouth watered, but there were no further blows. He peered up through a fringe of hair but could not see Frodo's reflection in the glass, just a sunlit curtain of dust motes that he ruffled with his panting breaths. Once the dust calmed, he bowed his head again and saw that two drops of clear spit had fallen on the letter. He smacked his lips, both embarrassed and pleased. The ink seemed black until it waxed into cloudy blue puddles, like a pair of eyes watching him. He wondered if Frodo would send it like that, or start fresh.

He heard a cup of tea being poured, and the creak of the chair. He closed his eyes and felt the smarting set in. On his right cheek there was a distinct handprint; the fingers were sharply outlined, the thumb less so. The red was brightest where the heel of the hand had struck; the hollow of the palm left scarcely a mark. On his left cheek bloomed a reddish-purple patch dotted with knuckle imprints.

Sam couldn't see any of this, but he could feel it. Tonight he would race down the hill, fetch out his mum's old looking glass and examine himself, but he knew there wouldn't be anything to see. He didn't bruise easily.

Time passed, and Frodo finished one cup - Sam could tell by the tiny slurping sound he made - and then another. The progress with the scones was quiet but steady; there was a spot of coughing over a crumb down the wrong pipe, but a gulp of tea seemed to set that to rights. It made Sam fidget, but he bit his tongue against an attentive query. They were waiting for the traces to fade.

Sam didn't much mind the waiting. He liked the way his head emptied of everything but the feel of straining muscles and cooling skin and Frodo, always Frodo. He liked being the focus of Frodo's attention. He liked being owned. _'My Sam says-'_

"Fetch some firewood."

And he straightened up and fastened his trousers and forced his mind back to his chores. Picking up the lighter tray, he tried to squeeze past Frodo, but his arm was caught in a gentle grip. "Are you mine, Sam?"

"Always, sir." He waited for the hand to release him before heading to the kitchen in search of wood. There was always something going wrong at Bag End. Sam made sure of it.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Master And Servant](https://archiveofourown.org/works/426503) by [dodificus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dodificus/pseuds/dodificus)




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